


Mrs. Potter

by belleweather



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Purple Prose, self-hate, spying for the dark side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-25
Updated: 2010-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27985593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belleweather/pseuds/belleweather
Summary: What would make Mrs. Potter turn away from her friends, and betray everything she knows to the dark?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Lucius Malfoy
Kudos: 2





	Mrs. Potter

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally written and posted on Livejournal)

There will be those who will want to think that he forced me into this -- that there was some extenuating circumstance that made me into what I am. But in the darkness of the alleyway, or behind the curtains of that monolithic bed buried in the back halls of the Manor, when his rough fingers breech my inner heat and thrust with their staccato rhythm across the line between pleasure and pain and back again, I know that I do this willingly. It will not be easy for them to know that, but it's the truth.

I feed him our secrets between screams and choked moans torn out of my throat by his hands and his cock. I cry out the carefully guarded plans of Dumbledore’s Army, their attacks, their retreats, their safe houses, and their spies, and above all the closely held secret of Harry’s ever-increasing despair. They all pour out of me, cried out around a tongue that possesses me, that takes my mouth as viciously as his cock pounding against the walls of my womb, breaking me open, stealing the secrets I have already given so willingly.

I am going to be caught at this, I know that it's just a matter of time. I am not careful, I do not conceal myself. We are more and more reckless and cannot bring myself to care. I know my punishment will be the dementors kiss and I wonder, alone in my marriage bed with my husband cold beside me and dreaming of silver eyes and silver hair and a man’s hard, angular body next to him, what their kiss will be like. Will it be cold? Cruel? Hungry? Those words bite into me every time his lips close on me like a sword. I feel my very soul being ripped from me and I wonder if the dementors themselves could really be any different, if I really have anything to fear?

What will Harry think, when he sees me there? The Green eyed boy hero who became my husband. Our marriage was something neither of us sought out, neither of us wanted. Yet how was I supposed to know that he who had been so strong willed in fighting Voldemort would yield so easily to public opinion? Of course we ought to marry, we’d been child-hood sweethearts. ‘Give the wizarding world something to rejoice about, dearie.’ Molly had said to me, as she pinned and tucked the silk and taffeta of my wedding dress with my own mother looking on, smiling. And how could I tell them if Harry, their young savior, could not that I was far from his child hood sweetheart. How could I feed them the secret that no one knew; that the person Harry had loved from childhood, the person he loved most in the world, had an acid tongue, silver eyes and a heavy cock between his legs. Draco Malfoy had died in a pool of his own blood on the field at the battle of Hogwarts. Harry would never be the same.

For years we’d learned it along with our lessons, eaten it along with our suppers, taken it in as surely as that heather-scented Hogwarts Air: Protect Harry Potter. Until we did it without even breathing, without thinking, lining ourselves up to make the great sacrifice. Ron had done it easily, bleeding and gasping his last breath. I had done it, mouthing the words of wedding vows that I knew that my husband would never mean. So many people – Sirius, Draco, Professor Lupin, Severus Snape – all with their lives bleeding and broken, all for Harry Potter. The Boy who Lived to cause nothing but death, and rot and sacrifice and terrible terrible sadness.

I ought to have known it from the first, when he’d insisted on waiting until our wedding night, and then turned his face and his flaccid cock to the wall, mumbling “I’m so sorry, Hermione… I just can’t.” Weeks of waking in the night to furtive movements under the blankets, to mumbled words and choked off moans from the man who felt more and more like a stranger to me.

In the end, I hadn’t needed to be recruited. I was withering on the vine as I posed for photos and signed autographs as the famous Mrs. Potter. I was powerless, lost in a world that seemed not-quite real, feeling the need to do something, to change something pound through me. So I followed that platinum hair, the swish of the cloak and the imperious walk down the path to Knockturn Alley. I surrendered my secrets, I spilled everything out to him, opening my mouth and my mind over a marble table and a glass of absinthe, opening my legs later on satin sheets. He used me viciously and my body sang with it. He plumbed my thoughts for tidbits, half-heard conversations, rumor and innuendo, and my mind rejoiced. I have only now become alive, these last four months, under Lucius’s hands, under his tongue and his cock and his incapacitating glare.

And what will my husband think? The dead-eyed man that was once our hero? All I really know, is that I don’t want to know. And I thank god that one day soon when they finally come for me, they will take me away to prison, and I will see neither Harry’s reaction nor Lucius’s grief. There is at least one betrayal I wont' have to face.


End file.
